


Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Prologue

by Mozu



Category: Guild Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:23:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozu/pseuds/Mozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Guild Wars 2 novel in progress. </p><p>Apologies for the wonky formatting - you can read this, properly formatted, over at http://bearzusmash.wordpress.com/thorn/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Prologue

**THORN, A SYLVARI’S TALE – Prologue**

**S.E. OFSTEIN**

_Sleep, child, and Dream,_ spoke the Mother, and so, safe within the loving embrace of the Pale Tree, the girl dreamt.

 

_Ronan, a war-weary soldier, returns home from a years-long battle in a faraway land. He finds his village in ruins, his family slaughtered by strange marauding spellcasters. Upon their graves, he plants a great, strange seed that he has carried home with him—a gift for his daughter. Grief-stricken, he casts aside his sword, vows to live a life of peace, and from that day forth, stays ever near the sprouting seed._

_Why does he not punish the ones who have wronged him?_ the girl asked _._

 _Ronan lived too much of his life with a blade in his hand and saw firsthand the horrors of war. He realized that violence can only beget violence—a vicious and never-ending cycle,_ the Mother answered.

_But allowed to live, free from retribution, the mursaat will go on to destroy other lives._

_And if he were to slay them, as they slew his own family, what would come of it, save_ more _grief? The only lasting peace is the peace within your soul. Perhaps in his mourning he found the strength to change the patterns of behavior he had always known, in hopes that others might follow suit._

_Where you see strength, Mother, I see a broken man, unable to act._

_Do not mistake wisdom for weakness, child._

_The warrior is soon joined by a centaur, Ventari, and the two create a sanctuary upon the site of so much woe—a tranquil grove near the coast,a haven for those who seek refuge **.** The seed becomes a sapling and continues to grow._

_The humans and centaurs war endlessly, bringing only death and sorrow to each other,_ the Mother replied to the girl’s unspoken questions. _These two have seen what misery war brings. Instead they seek enlightenment, and they seek to pass that enlightenment on to others to break the cycle of violence._

 

_The sanctuary swells with man and centaur alike, and soon the whole of the Grove is sheltered beneath the pale leaves of the growing tree. Sadly, the conflicts between the two races escalate with the passing of decades, and fewer and fewer seem willing to listen to Ventari’s teachings._

_Years later Ronan would return to the earthto join his family **.** Ventari, grey and bent with age, sets to carving his lessons onto a marble tablet—seven tenets he would leave to guide future generations that might gaze upon them. His work finished, Ventari too returns to the earth, and the Pale Tree, now alone in its sadness, draws resolve from the words left behind._

The girl remained silent, but the Mother understood her well. _All living things must one day pass beyond this world. Celebrate that life while it is here and live it well, for once it is gone, it is gone forever._

_Untold cycles pass and the tree continues to grow, dwarfing even the tallest oak, shaping the land and life around it. Even as it reaches toward the heavens, the Pale Tree feels a change in the world down in its deepest roots—a terrible awakening that would threaten all life on Tyria. The Pale Tree begins to change as well, and as seasons come and go, it bears its first fruit. The firstborn. Her children._

_Twelve in number, they set out from the Grove and spread across the land – to live, to die, to fight, to love, to eat, to drink, to laugh, to teach, to learn, and to pass their experiences and memories on to the Dream and to the sylvari yet to come. Later, they will guide with kind and patient hands the secondborn and the generations to follow._

_Some of the Pale Tree’s children turn from the teachings of Ventari, however, guided by baser instincts—anger, fear, jealousy and greed. They twist the Pale Tree’s vision, professing to seek freedom by becoming monsters and even attempting to corrupt the Dream itself._

_The girl’s heart melts at the wonder and beauty of the world she has yet to see with her own eye— its cycles of birth and life, death and renewal. Yet it hardens to stone at the cruelty and avarice of some, and crumbles to ashes as an ancient evil awakens to rend and corrupt the land. Nightmares rise from the sea and are cast ashore upon the waves, and the dead walk, bent on crushing all light and joy from the world._

_Feeling anger for the first time, the girl’s soul stirs. Emotions well up, and a ferocity she cannot later describe. The Dream turns to visions of battle._

_She watches as villages burn, farms are pillaged, cities sacked, children slain, wives and mothers raped and killed. She watches while fell beasts rampage and evil men lie, steal, and murder._

_She takes up the sword. Enemies are driven before her, hunted down like animals, and their pleas for mercy fall upon deaf ears._

_She wants to scream out, to howl like an animal and throw herself into action after the long Dream. To help, to shelter and protect those in need, and to scourge and terrify and purge the world of those foul men and beasts. To make them cry for mercy only to laugh in their faces, as they have done to the many innocents whose lives they had devastated._

_My child, would you become a monster as well?_ the Mother asked at long last.

 _Mother, there is such wickedness in the world,_ the girl cried out.

_Of course, my child._

_I must fight it._

_Of course, my child, as must we all._

_Why, Mother? Why? Why did Ronan not take up his sword and have his vengeance upon the mursaat that slew his family and neighbors?_

A long moment passed in silence before the Mother countered with a question of her own. _Would his wrath bring back his family?_

_. . . No._

_Would his wrath set the world right again, as if the tragedy had never happened?_

_No._

_Would his wrath give him comfort in the cold and lonely nights to come?_

_. . . No._ The girl found steel in her voice as she answered _, His wrath would have prevented the same fate ever befalling another family._

 _Violence can only beget violence—a vicious and never-ending cycle,_ the Mother repeated.

_No._

_No, my child?_

_No, Mother. Only when there is no more wickedness and evil in the world will the cycle end._

Days passed in silence as the girl floated along the currents of the Dream until the Mother spoke to her again. _I asked one of my children this very same question not so long ago. Would you do evil in my name?_

The girl remained silent, thinking. Finally she answered, defiant. _No, Mother. I would seek to bring light back into this world through charity and kindness and caring for others, but I would do evil_ in my own name _if need be. For if by terrible deeds, as well as good, I could protect and save the innocent and the kind, the honorable and righteous, and destroy that which seeks to cast down the light, then evil I shall do._

_I am not Caderyn, Mother, driven by jealously and insecurity into madness. But, no, I do not entirely disagree with him, either._

_You should know as well as I that while the blossom may be brother to the weed, the weed feels no such kinship. It will choke the very life from the blossom for its own benefit._

_Ronan and Ventari made their own choices, but I am not them, and they are not me, and it is for no one_ but _me to decide my path. Not even you, Mother. The words of another – and so few words at that—no matter how poetic, are simply words._

 _The love you bear for them I feel as well, but Ventari’s words are his own . . . as are Caderyn’s_. A _nd I know you love him still despite all that he has done._

The wind sighed, heavy and long, full of sadness, and the Mother was silent once more. Soon the girl heard a voice, however—a real voice, rumbling low and deep as the forest that surrounded the Grove. The voice came from all around her, and it growled, “I will be your shield and spear. I will fulfill your dream, girl, or we shall both return to the earth biting, clawing, and cursing and dragging our enemies down with us,” and once more the girl dove deeply into the Dream.

 

_Her world was misery and suffering, terror and pain **.** The agony of tortures both physical and psychological—far worse than anything Malmondies had endured at the hands of the diminutive Asura. Despite the depths of her despair, another sensation began to creep in as the visions of the tortured intertwined with visions from the torturer._

_She was sickened beyond consolation, yet a slow, evil grin spread across her face as sylvari committed unspeakable atrocities upon sylvari. Victims flashed before her, screaming, writhing in agony. She looked on as those weak and pathetic creatures begged and pleaded with her for an end to their torment. She flayed and burned and impaled them in anger and great sadness, satisfaction at her handiwork, and even . . . pleasure? Excitement? She served her lord and his cause admirably as years passed, and that cruel, disdainful face that the girl knew all too well was pleased._

_Caderyn._

_Great honors were bestowed upon her in the Nightmare Court—knighthood, and later, a small retinue of her own. She would become a foul, hateful legend in her own time, and many young sylvari were turned away from the shackles of Ventari and the Mother at her sweet words while many more would feel unbearable torment at her hands. As one of Caderyn’s most trusted lieutenants, she was finally awarded a place in the Retinue at an elaborate ceremony during one the Nightmare Court’s Dark Vigils._

_She looked now from Caderyn’s eyes to the fiend that knelt before her. Slowly he stood, full of pride, risen to Viceroy and second only to Grand Dutchess Faolain, and his face was the face of hatred and madness incarnate. Their gazes locked, and he smiled._

 

With a great, wet noise the pod tore open, spilling its contents to the ground in a geyser of golden fluid. The newborn sylvari landed painfully on her side, and the breath was knocked from her. The great virid wolf at her side leapt unsteadily to its feet to stand above her, hackles raised menacingly as it cast its muzzle about, searching for enemies.

Nearby sylvari looked on in horror at this destructive birth and the twin creatures it had wrought, and kept their distance.

Confused and frightened, the girl raised herself on one elbow to stare up at the huge pod. Rent asunder, golden sap ran from the torn pulp to form a great pool at its base, and her eye was drawn to the Pale Tree looming above. Impossibly huge roots housed and sheltered an entire city, while its trunk and massive leaves disappeared into the clouds.

The fern hound relaxed as the girl laid one sky-blue hand upon its face, and it sat back on its haunches. She stood and staggered, trying to get her feet under her one tentative step at a time. As the wolf of thorns and bramble padded along beside her, other sylvari made way before its piercing gaze or watched from afar, some merely curious, others afraid. The girl paid them no mind, and soon she and the wolf came upon the Ventari Tablet—a massive carved slab of white marble. The girl gently traced the deeply etched inscriptions with delicate outstretched fingers.

“We were together the whole time,” the girl whispered, not quite a question.               

“We dreamt the same Dream,” came a voice like the groaning of heavy boughs in a storm.

 “And you will see my dream through?”

“We dreamt the same Dream,” the voice creaked again, “and it is _our_ dream.” The wolf padded over to stand beside her.

 “Are we wrong?” she asked, her eyes far away.

The wolf cocked its head to one side, “Do you think we are?”

The sylvari girl was quiet for a time, reading the words before her with her own eyes for the first time. She loved Ventari, although she had never met him, and she loved his words, although they were merely that and nothing more.

“No.” She smiled down at the wolf, “No, I don’t think we are. Everyone chooses their own path, if the Dream has taught me anything, and true evil has no place in this world.”

A laugh like boulders grinding together. “Then the Dream has taught you well.”

They were quiet for a time.

“And what now?” she asked.

“What would you do?”

She moved to touch the stone again and stopped herself, the reaching hand retracting and balling into a tight fist.

“ _…where life goes, so too should you._ I will see this world and its people for myself. I will learn and help and fight and grow strong.”

The wolf nodded slowly, “Then I will await you here, no matter how long it takes, and when you return, we shall begin in earnest.”

Her head snapped up and her eyes widened.

“Do not look so sad, child. We have always been together, and we will be together again, but just as you must learn to stand on your own, so must I, and how better to hone myself than in battle against the undeath which threatens our home?”

She knelt and threw her arms about the wolf’s neck, heedless of the thorns pricking her skin, as a pale, golden tear slid down one cheek.

 

From far above, the firstborn Niamh and Malomedies listened as the Mother spoke to them. They merely nodded and watched the newborn and her companion walk from the the Grove toward the forest beyond. No one moved to stop them. Malomedies, frail and crippled, spoke quietly to Niamh, until she cut him off, spun on her heel, and stalked stiffly away. Malomedies called out and raised a hand to stop her to no avail. He pulled his robe closer about his thin frame to lean against the trunk of the Pale Tree, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

At the very edge of the Grove the fern hound halted.

“Go now. See what you must see, learn what you must learn, and return to me and to your people. Remember, child, no matter how alone you may feel in the coming seasons, you are never far from my thoughts, or my heart.”

She remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. Borrowed memories from the Dream bubbled to the surface of her consciousness—snippets of the musical language of a Cathan mercenary, friend and companion to one of her siblings—and she took a deep breath.

“Until we meet again, then, _Ibara.”_

 “Thorn. How fitting,” he barked a gravel-filled laugh. “Until we meet again, _Mozu_. Return, and I will be the thorn to your shrike, the anvil to your hammer, and this world’s enemies will know fear and ruin.”

When she turned back for one last look, he had disappeared, leaving no trace behind, and the wind whispered a soft, sad farewell.


End file.
